Stranger Than Fiction
by Hedonistica
Summary: Poor, unfortunate and ordinary Ellen. She lives in a squalid cold apartment in a cold coastal town of Southern Sweden and her fondest wish is to one day be able to go to the amazing Chocolate Factory to work for the legendary candymaker, Mr William Wonka
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER****: I do not own Mr. Willy Wonka. He owns me! **

**CAUTION:  
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Reading this FanFic can cause: Arousal, drooling, dryness of the eyes or excessive tear production, excitement, fear and loathing, feelings of a romantic nature, fever, headaches, itching of the skin, nausea, sadness, severe addiction and watering of the mouth.

Please consult your physician or your local pharmacist before reading this fanfic if you are currently reading another author's work.

A maximum intake of one chapter per every two weeks is advised and should not cause abstinence.

If abstinence does occur, please see: Internet for visual relief, your local shop for chocolate, the Wonka soundtrack for auditory satisfaction or the video rental shop for complete bliss.

If any of these remedies should not work, please contact author for advise.

**DESCRIPTION OF FANFIC:**

**CAUTION!**** MAJOR** **SPOILER-****WARNING! ** **CAUTION!**

This story contains movie based material and stays true to most of the storyline.

It contains a lot of **major spoilers** and should not be read before watching the 2005 movie.

The story was first written in 2005 after I saw the movie, and has laid dormant for five years until I took it up again.

It is set in Sweden and in Bangor, Maine, in the United States. The reason for the Bangor location is because it was the best choice of location and it also is a tribute to Mr Stephen King.

It is mostly based on the 2005 movie, some is based on the 1971 movie, and, off course, more than a little part is based on the two books by Roald Dahl.

It is not a crossover, but you will find that some characters and events from other movies and books have sneaked their way into this story, but I will not list them here, since that could cause confusion as to what the story really is about. The readers could believe the story to be much different from what it really is.

(Just go ahead and have fun finding out which movies and characters are from where.)

The two major influences in it though; are; Fight Club (can you imagine that?) and my favourite Fan fiction writer(s): "The Puddled Rizzler", and the Wonkalicious story: **"To love a Riddled Puzzler."** These wonderful writers have given me their written permission to use some of their work, such as some names of candy and other "wonky" things from their story I consider to be quite genius.

You can find their wonderful story here at . Just search for it, and I swear you won't be disappointed!

**PS:** Here and there, the original -71 and -05 movie-lines from the different characters have been altered. Some of them are switched. I'm well aware of that, and it is meant to be so. The reason I have chosen to do so is to keep the story flowing.

And, just so you all know it from the start: My character "Ellen Winter" **is** a Mary Sue. I will not bother denying the fact that she is a better and younger, less obnoxious version of me. She is me as I want to be. Young, pretty and in the immediate vicinity of mr Willy Wonka. (Who would say no to **that**?)

The story also contains the **soundtrack lyrics** from the -05 movie, and as the Gods and Goddesses of Administration have decreed that no one is to use lyrics, since they do not own them, I hereby plead with Them in Their Almightyness and announce:

**I do not own the story by Roald Dahl, nor do I own any of the songs, written by Danny Elfman, and I do not earn any money from either work. If I did, then I would be richer, more beautiful and slimmer than I am today. **

**DS**

**Rated: M**

**Please, oh, please, SEND REVIEWS! I love them. I need them. I feed on them! **

**Flame me, please, if you so must, but risk to betray my tiny trust.  
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1

**THE FACTORY** lay heavily upon the winter landscape, majestic as a palace of purest white ice.

The clear azure sky seemed to reach to infinity and the sun shone down upon it with all it's merciless splendour.

In the mirage the low frigid hills behind the immense complex seemed to quiver in anticipation.

Ellen turned her tired gaze from the picture on her TV set to glance at the disturbingly loud-ticking and hideously coloured wall mounted clock. It showed five minutes past four. She sat trying to watch the late night news, unable to sleep due to the autumn storm that forced her to listen to the drizzling rain spattering against the dark living-room window. In the silence of the night it sounded like tiny metal fingers rapping the glass. She had gotten up from bed, made herself a little nest on the living-room sofa, curled up in a thin grey tattered blanket and turned on the TV. She was ready to do almost anything to ward off the sound of the raindrops hammering the aluminum windowpane, a sound that made her feel like a victim of Chinese water torture.

It had rained almost constantly for three whole days and nights, and the dark streets outside were practically drenched. Ellen could hear a lone passing car sloshing through a particularly large puddle.

It was late October and cold outside, just some degrees above freezing. It was late at night, and the chilling damp wind seeped inside, making her shudder.

She gave a slight abject sigh as a gleefully smiling and neatly combed TV reporter moved into the scene and disturbed the serene beauty of the factory front yard. "This is Evan Baxter, from WKBW Eyewitness News, reporting to you, live from Hillside Boulevard, Bangor, Maine in the United States of America, and the world's most famous chocolate factory…" the reporter eagerly announced. "…and just now, at ten o'clock in the morning I have received the incredible word that Mr. William Wonka, elusive multimillionaire, owner of the Wonka Chocolate and Sweets Industry, creator of the world's most popular candy, will open his factory to five lucky children and their parents!"

_How wonderful that would be;_ thought Ellen;_ to be as lucky as to win such a treasure…_

Ellen sighed once more, rubbed her cold hands together, hiding them under the blanket to warm them, and thought of her situation.

It was; sad to say; depressingly unfortunate.

Ellen could count herself lucky if she had enough food to quell her hunger, and even luckier still if she could manage to save any leftovers for the next day.

The old and diminutive apartment in which she and her best friend Eric were forced to live was cold and had walls the hue of baby food on the rebound, and floors scratched by years of wear and tear. The entire apartment complex, built some years after the second World War showed all the signs of the architecture from those meagre years, and fifty more years of constant neglect. The mortar between the bricks on the outer walls was slowly crumbling into sand and dust, the plumbing lamented disturbingly each time one used the faucets and taps, clogged up sinks and bathtubs as no one had ever cared to mend it, and the radiators were hardly warm at all. It seemed to be designed as a dolls-house, with the impression of the architect mirroring the blueprints to make all apartments on the right side of the sickly yellowish stairwell fit a deadline.

Especially the kitchen seemed to be designed for left handed dwarfs. To the north, the kitchen window revealed a bleak partially grass-covered yard with green fence. Once lush and fragrant jasmine bushes were now pruned to the root, sticking pathetically up from the musty soil. It looked as if Mother Earth had decided to try out her newly acquired epilator; to no avail; leaving a stubble. In midst of the fenced area was a gravelled square; with puddles of water; making it resemble an old Appellplatz to round up unfortunate inmates of a camp from the great war. To the south, one could; if one dared; venture out on a rickety balcony, with floorings that fell out in chips of concrete, as the raw autumn winds gnawed deeper into its rusting firmament. The flowers in the fractured racks were all gone, and a savage garden rioted completely, with whatever seeds the winds had carried. Two old brownish black garden chairs in wood stood haphazardly parked for occasional smokers, who were allocated to the exterior. Yellowish brown withered seeds and grass dominated the life of pots in the corners.

The vista of the balcony matched that of the kitchen, as a sick elm, ready to crash into the building with every new autumnal rage of tempests leaned toward the side of the balcony, and beyond it; an ever decaying lawn with withering grass and dying trees; lay an old factory in sepia. The factory gave sound during all hours, as of mating dinosaurs clashing together, screeching their cries of anger, frustration and lust into the stale air. The sight was not cheerful, thought Ellen. It easily conjured up distressing memories from schoolbook-pictures of annihilation camps. One large chimney rose in mid-view and gave vent to the offensive fumes of whatever was produced inside the heavy bulk of the main building.

During night, there were also noises from the vast attic above, as if people pulled funeral coffins across the floor.

In all, it was not a nice place to live.

Ellen sighed again and glanced through the rain-distorted window at the neighbouring factory with it's brown and dirty brick walls and old reeking chimneys, wishing she lived somewhere else.

It wouldn't matter if she was still as poor; Ellen thought; she would not care the least if she could just live close to that wonderful chocolate factory.

She had heard about it ever since she was a little girl, heard stories about the amazing candy-maker and his wonderful chocolate factory. She had been told he always cared for the environment and was kind to all his workers. Once, when Ellen was a little girl, and her aunt Josephine had been to the states to visit a friend, she had brought with her a bar of delicious Wonka chocolate which she gave to Ellen who found it to be the best she had ever tasted. It was then she decided she would never buy any other candy than Mr. Wonka's, and; being a little four year old girl with vivid imagination; she had immediately made up her mind to move to the States and work for him.

But the factory closed, Ellen grew older, and by the time it opened again, it was too late. Even if the factory was running, producing more and more candy, now exporting sweets to the four corners of the globe, the sales ever increasing, the demand growing every day, it still stayed closed, Mr. Wonka allowing no one to enter.

Saddened to hear the news; Ellen thought the better of it; and changed her path of education.

But now; years later; she sat; wishing she was there in real life. Instead, she had to sit in her poorly constructed stale apartment, watching the factory from her TV set.

"Hiya, Ellen!" said a voice from the door. Ellen turned, rubbing her tired eyes with the back of her hands. Eric, her best friend stood in the doorway, he too seemingly unable to sleep. Ellen smiled at him.

"Hope the volume didn't wake you." she said, scootching over to one side of the sofa, letting him sit down beside her. Eric smiled back at her. "Nope, it didn't." he said, leaning his back toward the cold wall, trying to find a comfortable spot. "It's the bloody rain."

As Eric settled himself beside her, Ellen watched the journalist who continued reporting his news.

The camera zoomed in on the massive steel gates at the factory entrance.

"The Wonka industry has been a mystery to the entire world for fifteen years…" the reporter carried on. "…and as we all know Mr. Wonka closed his factory and banned the public and his workers from accessing the factory grounds due to severe infiltration, resulting in multiple trademark theft."

The camera moved in further and the picture seemed to make it's way in between the large metal bars of the closed gates, showing pristine snow, glistening like small diamonds in the bright morning light.

"A yard no one has tread in fifteen years," the reporter said via satellite. "No footprints in the snow, no silhouettes of workers through the large windows… only the tire-marks from the Company delivery trucks, always delivering in the darkest hour of the night, just before dawn."

Ellen watched the glimmering yard with awe, and felt an unexpected thrill moving through her body, her hair suddenly standing on end.

"No one ever goes in…" nearly whispered the reporter, "…and no one ever comes out…"

Ellen shuddered at his words and drew her tattered grey blanket closer around her thin form, as an eerie feeling crept across her skin. The picture on her TV changed once more to face the smiling reporter holding on to his bright red microphone.

"Until now, no one has entered, but now Mr. Wonka has hidden five golden tickets in five ordinary Wonka bars, sending them to the four corners of the earth, and the five lucky winners of these golden tickets will be invited to spend an entire day in Mr. Wonka's factory, guided by none other than Mr. Wonka himself!"

Now the camera closed up on a Wonka Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight bar and the golden print of a star in it's left upper corner stating: "Win a golden ticket and a trip to Wonka's Wonderful World of Chocolate!"

"And that's not all…" the reporter smiled to the camera. "…each of these lucky winners will receive a lifetime supply of chocolate and sweets, and they also automatically enter one final contest with a very special prize at the end of the day!"

The camera zoomed in on a wooden telephone pole with a poster fastened to it, stating:

"**Dear people of the world!**

**I Willy Wonka, have decided to allow five children to visit my factory this year.**

**In addition, one of these children shall receive a special prize beyond anything you could ever imagine. **

**Five Golden Tickets have been hidden underneath the ordinary wrapping of five ordinary Wonka-bars. These five candy bars could be anywhere, in any shop, in any street, in any town, in any country in the world. Good luck, and good hunt!**

**// Willy Wonka."**

"Probably some scam to sell more chocolate. Corporate guys in blue suits making billions, while the blue-collars on the factory floor do not even get dentals" Eric muttered darkly. Ellen was used to him venting anti-globalisation musings every now and then. But what could one do, more than growl silently at the movers and shakers of society?

She watched on in silence, not wanting him to throw another fit against the worlds collective capitalism.

Ellen clutched the old blanket tightly and tried not to imagine what it would be like to win this incredible tour. But she felt her inside beg for food, and licked her lips at the thought of a lifetime supply of sweets delivered to her front door whenever she was hungry.

_Hungry_… Oh, what she wouldn't have given for a full meal, she thought, almost unable to look at the factory she knew she would never enter.

Mr. Wonka had clearly stated that it was _children_ who were to enter, and she was not a child any more. "I'm going to bed again." Eric said tiredly as he rose from the sofa, closing the door behind him to avoid the cold and unnecessary draft of musty autumn air.

She sat a while and watched the screen, now showing other news. She was not too interested in what happened in the world, since it was always the same; bad news about floods, horrible news about corrupted politics, distressing reports from different wars and terrible diseases threatening the lives of the indigenous population of wherever. It appeared the president of the United States had now decided to triple the taxes for those owning environmentally friendly enterprises. He stood behind a White House rostrum looking as pretentious and self loving as ever, telling the world he improved it. Ellen could hear Eric's voice in her head, muttering about dictatorship and greed. She frowned at the president and sat waiting, watching the news until they were once more showing the Chocolate factory, with it's enormous steel gates.

Ellen gritted her teeth, her thoughts trailing. She had no chance to win, she told herself. Off course not. Rich children had the chance, and no doubt they would be self absorbed, fat and know-it-all spoiled brats who got everything they pointed at. _Those_, not a poor young woman in her twenties, dependant on her monthly welfare ticket, would surely win.

Slowly she rose from the torn blue sofa with the blanket still clutched around her quivering shoulders in an effort to ward off the cold wind seeping in through the poorly constructed window, and turned off the light hanging from the small living-room ceiling. Silently as not to wake her sleeping friend, she lay down on her red creaking metal-economy-camper's bed and snuggled into the thin blanket.

She lay with her arms clutching herself, staring numbly into the dark, listening to the rain and Eric's slow intakes of breath, wishing she had the means to give them both a life worth living. Her thoughts lingered on the beautiful winter scene, her mind slowly wandering off to the closed gates that held the secret winter wonderland just beyond them, so close, but so hopelessly out of reach.

She tried to imagine she was there, tried to imagine the sound of the rain being drops of candy, falling off the end of a conveyor.

Ellen fell asleep, and in her dreams, she could smell the fragrance of freshly fallen snow mingled with the rich warm scent of chocolate-smoke abundantly emanating from the enormous, towering chimneys of the Chocolate Factory.

The following morning they rose early, as the dusty and grey Venetian blinds did not close completely, leaving them in a bleak daze of morning light seeping through the buckled lamellas.

A Spartan breakfast of oatmeal usually sated some of her worst longing for real aliments churning in the depths of her innards. But as Ellen looked, she found the cabinet empty, apart from some plastic bags with holes at the bottom, a can of white beans in tomato sauce and half a bag of macaroni.

"So, what's left?" wondered Ellen, who pined for bread, butter and cheese.

"Two pounds, and…'"Eric searched in the tin box, in which they kept their money, his fingers only meeting empty corners

"…seventy penny, " Ellen finished his sentence, after she had finished turning her coat pockets inside out.

"Enough for a loaf of bread and some cheese." he smiled, about to close the tall closet. Ellen could see how he froze in mid motion, eyes longingly beholding the tin chocolate container labeled "Wonka's Dreamy Chocolate Drink". It had been unopened for such a long time, now only containing a brown measure with a swirling trademark "W" imprinted on it. He gently took the container from the shelf, and opened the lid with reverence. They could both see some cocoa powder left in a corner. He wet the tip of his forefinger with his tongue, gathered as much as he could of the minute grains, and licked the finger clean. As Ellen watched him, she felt a raw longing for the contents in the box. How long since her tongue had felt the rich flavour of hot chocolate? Weeks? Months?

In two weeks they would hopefully get their welfare ticket. Again.

Ellen put the money in her pocket, opened the front door and descended the echoing stairwell, careful not to lean too much on the green rickety loose banister. She sighed downheartedly and stepped out into the grey autumn landscape, smelling of wet cold earth and old vapid leafs.

It was a raw, damp day, and Ellen hurried her way toward the small town shopping mall. Hunger churned deep inside her, and she walked on, past the hideous and foul-smelling dirty factory. Leafs blew up from the side-walk, and danced around her feet in a sombre farewell to the short summer. Ellen looked at them, swallowing down a lump in her throat. She always felt sad as the days became shorter. The trees were naked, reaching with spiny dark fingers toward the iron grey skies. Some birds flew, high up on the winds, carrying them away to warmer grounds. She could hear their cries echoing sadly.

She tried to imagine she lived next to the fantastic and enigmatic chocolate factory, as she sped along the factory brick wall, and forced a smile as she saw the large brown chimney supported by bands of corroding iron. But her smile faded as she inhaled the thick, pungent odour emanating from it, and the mirage she tried to conjure up inside dissolved.

Some heavy trucks on their way from the Travemünde ferry passed on the watery street, and Ellen jumped closer to the factory walls, away from the side of the road to avoid the cold showers of water their large wheels stirred up. But she had moved to slow, and was splashed.

Well in the supermarket, she made her way to the grains and beans shelf, passing the candy section. It hurt to look at it, Ellen thought. But still she wanted to look. Mr. Wonka always made such beautiful wrappings for his candy, and it smelled divine to stand there, surrounded by all the goodies. She sighed as she saw the "Dear people" sign, and trudged along to collect her groceries, wishing she had received her welfare ticket.

The first child to find a welfare-ticket of Gold was indeed corpulent, his bulky flesh seemed to protrude through the TV-screen, like an avalanche of McDonald's-fat.

Eric, who sat close next to Ellen to keep her warm, gave a dry smile and nudged her arm, his emerald eyes still fastened on the screen in front of them, unable to tear his gaze off of the incredible lump of fat with a child's voice and a heavy German accent.

"Look Ellen," he said laughing dryly. " Your premonition was true, a German Dudley Dursley has won the first ticket!"

Ellen laughed.

The boy did truly resemble the fat and greedy fictional character from the books of Harry Potter.

He stood blocking much of the surrounding view. After some minutes, and when the camera zoomed out, Ellen understood he was inside a butcher shop. Hams dripping with fat hung abundantly from the beautifully raftered ceiling, sausages in every size and texture lay displayed behind a polished glass counter, and various cutlets, pork chops and filées lay neatly stacked in another glass covered display.

A blonde female reporter stood reluctant next to the boy who constantly stuffed his face with ever disappearing Wonka-bars. "This is Amanda Tillerman reporting to you live from Düsseldorf, Germany." She said to the camera matter of factly

"The first Golden Ticket was found today by young Augustus Gloop, the town butcher's son." Behind the boy, stood a bald corpulent man with a reddish walrus-like moustasche. He was smiling widely, nodding at the camera while working with a string of sausages, and wiping his hands on his white butcher's robes. If it was not for the fact that the first winner made Ellen feel nauseated, she would have liked the shop. Seeing all those savoury sausages made her mouth water, but it quickly stopped as the TV-screen was filled to bursting-point with the boy's reddish face, his tiny but watery eyes fastened to the camera, his large, smiling toad-like mouth smeared with a brownish substance Ellen hoped to be chocolate.

"Tell us, Augustus, how you came to find your ticket" the reporter said while she bravely approached him with the microphone in hand.

"I find ze golden ticket, ven I'm eating ze Vonka bar" The boy slurred. "… I get zo very happy!" The camera zoomed outward and located the now greasy ticket in the boy's bulky hand. It dangled and flopped as the boy tried his best to wave it in the air. And I taste zomezing zat iz not shokolate, or coconut, or walnut, or peanut butter, or nougat, or butterbutter, or caramel, or sprinkles." He paused and seemed to think very hard. "…Zo I take one ozer bite, and ze bar ztill taste funny, zen I look, and I find ze Golden ticket!"

Ellen could hear her friend's sharp intake of breath as he watched on with trepidation, he never liked absurdly overweight persons, and he liked them even less when they were unsanitary.

The female reporter backed away from the boy as he waved the ticket in her direction, her face bearing the expression of someone longing desperately to go home and have a long, cleansing shower. Another reporter took his opportunity to interview the first lucky contestant. He leaned in over the assembled photographers and journalists and smiled.

"Augustus How did you zelebrate?" He called, and the boy moved his massive head in his direction, the flesh of his neck quivering like that of a champion walrus. His watery blue eyes focused on the blonde journalist. "I eat more candy!"

Eric shuddered beside Ellen on the sofa and made a retching sound. The boy on the screen began looking through his enormous pants for something. He rummaged through his pockets, and finally found a Wonka bar that looked dwarfed in his fat hands. He ripped it almost barbarically, and started grubbing away at it. Ellen was thankful when the camera zoomed in on his mother. Mrs Gloop looked like a kind and caring woman with plump red cheeks, smiling eyes, a reddish sixties beehive hairdo, a double row pearl necklace and a knitted jersey. She stood on her son's left, next to an old, beautiful cash register. If Ellen had believed in Santa Claus, then this is what his wife would look like.

Ellen decided she liked her.

"We knew Augustus would find ze Golden Ticket. He eat zo many candy bars a day, zat it was not possible for him not to find one." Mrs. Gloop smiled at the camera, and patted her son's giant shoulder. The sound that filled Ellen's little room was that of someone patting an elephant's backside.

The journalist also known as Amanda Tillerman leaned into the picture once more, and started walking out from the butcher shop.

"So…" she stated. "The first Golden Ticket has been found in Düsseldorf, Germany. Where will the next one show up? Now over to Mike with the latest stock market news." Eric turned to face Ellen, who sat next to him, he was looking at the screen with a disgusted expression.

"Well…" he said, in a comforting tone of voice, shrugging off his grimace, "It was close to Sweden, but no cigar…" The picture changed and Mike, the stock market whiz appeared.

He too seemed entranced by the contest, his face was shining as if he was a five year old kid at Christmas. "Thank you, Amanda!" he said, and a picture of the stock market roller-coaster appeared beside him, while the news rolled past on the lower portion of the screen, telling everyone the invasion of Iraq was going well, and that the president of the United States was very pleased indeed. "Well!" the excited Mike said to his viewers. "The first ticket claimed, and only four to go. This craze is spreading like a wild fire, people are buying candy as ever before. The Coca Cola company stocks are falling, no, plummeting to new records, and rumour has it that Mr. Wonka will buy the entire enterprise. The NASDAQ started on twelve percent plus today, the Tokyo index is also rising. Is this just a lucky turn of events, or are we facing a global improvement?

Ellen shrugged her shoulders and raised from the sofa, leaving for the kitchen. She tried to conceal the disappointment lingering across her tired face, but it was obvious she was not happy. From the cold and poorly lit kitchen with it's empty cupboards, she could hear the TV chattering.

"I guess," she said from the small ill-designed kitchen as she opened their barren refrigerator to look for something edible, "that Europe has lost it's chance of finding another ticket, now that the other ones probably will end up on the other continents…" As she returned to Eric's side with a bowl of cold leftover macaroni and sat down, looking at the screen, she could hear him muttering something about the theory of Chaos. He took a sip of his weak and tepid Earl Grey, picked up the remote and zapped, the sound of the Discovery Channel filling the stale air.

The streets were dark and empty as she paced through the thick layers of musty fallen autumn leaves on her way to the supermarket. The chill of the damp autumn evening tinted her cheeks in a rosy hue and entered her thin winter coat. Inert street-lights illuminated her thinning form, their light falling on her, casting her elongated shadows upon the dull walls towering above her. She felt so small, so insignificant, so… dead. As always, she had searched for an occupation the entire day and was now tired and cold to her very bones. With one hand, she clutched a Swedish One Hundred crown bill, wishing she had the equivalent in US currency; eleven dollars; instead, since that meant she was _there_, in the Land of Opportunity, of Milk, Honey and Chocolate, and not in this hopeless dead town of southern Sweden.

It was late evening and the shop was almost empty when Ellen entered, walking tiredly past the shelves stocked with expensive food items she could never hope to buy. Ignoring them, she made her way towards the grains and beans shelf, silently summing the price in her head to make ends meet.

Some chattering and excited school children stood gathered around a cylindrical shelf, stuffing their trolleys full of chocolate bars, their faces full of expectation and wonder. Ellen instantly recognised the golden swirling trademark "W" on each bar, and on a cardboard commercial plaque fastened on top of the shelf, which was nearly emptied due to the " World Wide Wonka Craze" as the newspapers had named it.

Ellen stepped closer to the shelf, stopping in front of it, looking at the bars lying there, once neatly stacked, now knocked aside and over by the greedy hands of the more fortunate ones.

Ellen began putting the bars back in place, a habit she had had for quite a while. She felt almost sorry for the bars as she carefully picked them up and put them back on the shelf in order, the tips of her fingers tracing their contours.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Ellen quietly sensed the contents of the precious chocolate bars, wishing her means were not as limited as they were, so that she too could; however briefly; fool herself into believing that she actually had a chance at winning a golden ticket, and if not, at least being able to taste a piece of heaven wrapped in Mr. Wonka's logo.

"Are you going to buy that, miss?" A man's voice startled her, and she looked up into the pale eyes of a business man, holding a fat wallet. Ellen silently shook her head and put the bar back on it's shelf and began backing away.

The business man gave her a long look. "And don't you try to steal chocolate again, do you hear?" Ellen felt his words sting like acid, and swallowed hard. She had never tried to steal anything, but if she would try, then Mr. Wonka was the very last person she would ever steal from. She hurried away from the business man, and glanced over her shoulder at him. He stood cramming the remaining bars into three full plastic bags, with a satisfied smile across his face. Ellen did not linger. She withdrew, concentrating on overpowering the burning tears of indignation that clogged her throat. When she finally had managed to suppress them, she tried to return to her shopping. She didn't want any trouble. Of that, she already had quite enough.

Eric sat at the table when she huffed the door open, and stepped inside, smelling of outdoors.

"Did you buy one?" He asked, his emerald eyes glittering with anticipation.

Ellen slumped. "No."

Eric rose and pushed his chair back. "Why not? I gave up smoking so we could buy one."

"I know." Ellen sighed, not wanting to talk about it. "Some rich fellow took the last one." She hung off her damp winter coat in the hallway and started removing her shoes, which were wet and partially covered in dark decaying leaves.

"I guess," she said as she started unpacking the scarce contents of her red and white plastic shopping bag onto the table to sort it into the cupboard, "it was for the best anyway. Chocolates aren't a necessity, don't you agree?"


	2. Chapter 2

2

**THE WIND** howled outside the large window, but Eric and Ellen did not care too much when they sat in their best friend Linu's sofa, sipping hot tea, watching the TV, petting his pet cats, Coco and Cornelia, when Bonnie; Linu's animé dressed fiancé; abruptly stormed into the room, her colourfully braided hair standing on end. Her eyes flashed somewhat menacingly while she was waving a newly required news-paper as if she was chased by giant wasps. A crowd of three surprised friends and two quite startled black and white cats looked up at her in unison. Bonnie waved the newspaper once more. "Some stupid spoiled brat has found the second Ticket," she stated.

"Check the news! I want to show you what a complete brat she is!"

Linus grabbed the grey remote and changed channels to the evening news. Everything had been re-scheduled to fit this remarkable report. Earthquakes had to wait, drowning cattle in India, the invasion of Iraq, and the African drought had to wait, now that every-ones eyes were on the second winner of a Golden Ticket. A British reporter clad in a brownish suit leaned toward to face a pretty girl in an expensive pink coloured dress, standing on a chequered floor on top of a polar-bear skin. The girl stood smiling between her parents, and the room surrounding the little family was sporting elaborate paintings, Ming-vases and costly furniture, and the walls were lined with numerous heads and craniums of unfortunate elks, badgers, stags and foxes who had had the misfortune to cross the vast Beauregarde hunting-grounds.

"Just three weeks after the first of the five Golden Tickets was found," the reporter's British voice stated, "…the second was found here in Great Britain!" Turning to the little girl, the reporter prompted a full image, and the screen was filled with the syrupy sweet face of

"Miss Veruca Salt, residing in Buckinghamshire, England" the reporter reported "… is the second lucky winner of one of the five Golden Tickets." He glanced at the little girl standing neatly between her wealthy parents. "Miss Salt, could you be as kind as to spell your name to the press, please?"

The girl flashed him a false smile, bobbing her dark golden locks as she turned her head toward the cameras, eagerly greeting the photographers flashes of light.

"I'm Veruca Salt!" she said, flashing yet another plastered grin. " V E R U C A Salt."

"I bet you are…" Bonnie cursed from her side of the sofa, where she now sat, strangling the crumbled newspaper, clenching her teeth. The reporter turned to the girl's loving parents, offering them a chance to air their voices.

"As soon as my little Veruca told me she had to have one of these Golden tickets, immediately wanting it right away, I placed an order over the Internet and started to buy up all the Wonka bars I could lay my hands on. I even bought the entire lot of crates shipped to the British Isles." Her father proudly announced. " Thousands of them, hundreds of thousands." The ageing father continued to the eager press.

Bonnie hissed at the TV. "That's cheating! Oh, I loathe those rich guys… they want everything for themselves!" she looked at Eric who concurred. "Yep." He answered. "Soon they will have monopoly on the Earth itself, just look at the American president and his…" Ellen sighed. Here they go again, throwing their fits against society. Off course, Ellen agreed with them, but could not concentrate on their conversation, since she was absorbed by the news. The reporter looked surprisedly into the camera and let the wealthy father continue. "I then had them shipped to my _own_ factory, as I am in the nut-business you see, so I say to my workers: _Morning, ladies! From now on, you can stop shelling peanuts, and start shelling the wrappers of these candy bars instead." _He looked down upon his daughter an patted her shoulder. "Three days went by, and we had no luck, oh, it was terrible. My little Veruca got more and more upset each day, and how exhausting it was for me to find it, since my little angel here wouldn't accept anything to eat until I found it for her" he continued before the reporter had any chance of asking his preselected questions. "Well, gentlemen, I just hated to see my little girl feeling unhappy like that. I vowed I would keep up the search until I could give her what she wanted. It took me three days; but it paid off; and finally, I found her a ticket; and now we are a quiet, happy family once more." Mr. Salt turned to glare at his wife standing opposite him. She had a pained expression in her botoxicated, perfectly made up face, and was just about to down a large portion of sherry.

"Turn it off! Commanded Bonnie vehemently. "It sickens me!"

The scruffy little apartment smelled of oranges, cinnamon and newly baked bread. An old candle-holder stood in the draughty window, one red candle flickering happily to occasional passers by on the street below. _"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas…" _Ellen sang from within the kitchen as she prepared the dinner, accompanied by the original Boney M reggae beat. She was happy today. It was Christmas Day, and although no snow had fallen on the streets outside the apartment complex and the horrid neighbouring factory, she felt a slight tingling of joy, as she always did around the Holidays.

She could see Eric smile, and was aware that he was holding something firmly behind his back. She knew it was a gift, and tried her best to conceal the fact that she had indeed noticed what he was doing, that he was trying to be careful not to reveal it to her. As Ellen rummaged around and carefully put the few warm cinnamon buns she had managed to bake in a bread basket, she inhaled the rich cosy scent of Christmas. She then peeled the second orange, almost reverently and gathered the peels, arranging them in a bowl sprinkled with a little cinnamon, letting the aroma fill the air. When she was done preparing their scarce dessert, she began searching for their main course, something tasty for them to feast upon. As Ellen found what she was looking for; a half full bag of pasta, the last can of crushed tomato, some black olives, and a tin can with mushrooms, she turned to the stove to begin cooking. Eric stood there, and she noticed him smiling.

A warm feeling spread through her as she saw his smile. It was something he did not do too often any more, and when he did, Ellen knew he was happy.

None of them cared much for the traditional religions, and Ellen knew he had never really cared about Christmas, but if it made her happy, then he gladly participated, just to see her smile.

She could hear him snickering to himself as he hid that something he probably had carefully selected in some shop, and now held behind his back. He hid it underneath Ellen's red and warm favourite holiday wool sweater that she would put on every year after the dinner and the dishes. Smiling, Ellen finished the last bite of the makeshift pasta Putanesca, her hunger now quelled for some more hours, and started singing as she picked the table, ready to do the dishes.

Eric sat at the table and tried his best to look full, although Ellen knew he felt as if his guts were replaced with a painfully swirling black hole that was always hungry and always awake.

The cold water washed down over her hands, numbing her fingers, turning them red, but she ignored the pain and glanced at Eric. She could see his pale smile. No doubt was he thinking of the thing he had hidden. Ellen was beginning to wonder what it was, and spent the rest of the time washing dishes, thinking of what that something might be, waiting silently underneath her sweater. Clenching her teeth, she ignored the pain. When she lay the towel down and it was time for their tradition of reading "How The Grinch Stole Christmas" Eric couldn't keep it in any longer.

"Ellen, ?" He demanded her attention. "You should put your sweater on. It's getting cold!"

Ellen sat down next to him on the chair beside the kitchen table, obeyed, and as she grasped her garment, a small, flat, heavy gift wrapped in paper fell down into her lap. She knew what it was, even when it was concealed in ordinary brown wrapping paper. Her heart leapt and she looked at her friend. He was smiling. "Merry Christmas, Ellen!" Eric said with warmth in his voice and eyes. "Open it!"

And Ellen did, but slowly. She took great care in unwrapping the gift, revelling in the thought of what lay hidden underneath the brown gift-wrapping paper. Then, as she felt the contours and weight in her hand, she knew what it was, and for a moment it felt as if she was a little girl again, in her warm home, sitting between her loving parents beside the large Christmas tree, looking at all the glittering lights and decorations, listening to the heart warming music flowing from their old Long Play stereo. She could feel the scent of the beautiful, lush green pine tree mingled with the savoury aroma of the Christmas Turkey. She could remember the very first time she received a Wonka bar, and that same feeling spread through every nerve inside her. She had been a happy little girl; back then; she had lived in a loving family, and she had always been protected from the harsh world outside, from the cold and from poverty. Her family had not been wealthy, but never poor, and she had never wanted for anything. But now she was grown up and had to fend for herself, left in the dark.

Her parents were; even if they did want to; unable to care for her and help her. They were growing old, and had with all right moved to a warmer, distant country, dealing with their own problems.

Ellen blinked the tears away from her eyes. The past was the past, and it did not matter how much she wished to go back to that time, it was for ever gone, swept away by the tide of time, only leaving a fading blueprint. Ellen swallowed hard and continued unwrapping her gift, making sure the original print was not damaged. When the contents of the gift was revealed, she smiled through the tears, a small flame of nervous hope flickering to life in the sombre pit of her stomach.

It was a purple and emerald Wonka Double Delicious Dream-bar, and it crackled silently in her hands as she held it, and the little nervous flame inside Ellen grew stronger, mingled with a feeling of expectation she quickly set aside. Expectation is not good, she thought, it leads to hope; and hope in her case always led to disappointment.

Eric leaned in and watched the bar in her trembling hands. "Just don't get too disappointed if you don't find one…"

Ellen nodded and swallowed hard. She knew, but she still wanted to believe, and so; with closed eyes; she ripped the container alongside the edge and took a deep breath, and held the bar of chocolate in her hand, hesitantly pondering weather or not she should open her eyes to look at it. In her mind's eye, she tried to imagine the machines that had produced the bar, tried to imagine the genius behind it all. But as she silently dreamt herself away to the imaginary factory, she heard Eric's disheartened voice falling to a broken "I knew it!"

Her heart sank, but she managed a smile and hugged him close. "At least," she thought, they now had a delicious bar of chocolate to share, and that was better than nothing at all.

The young friends sat together beside their flaking kitchen table, in the flickering, yellow light of Christmas candles warming their features, reading their favourite holiday book, sharing the bar of chocolate.

It was late when Ellen finally fell asleep.

The yard glistened like a thousand stars and the gates of the factory shone like polished silver.

The sky above her head was a dome of beautiful royal blue velvet, sprinkled with millions upon millions of pin prick diamonds flickering silently. Eric stood there by her side, smiling in a cloud of winter breath.

They were alone, and all was silent.

Ellen gripped his hand firmly, her heart pounding against her ribs. Although it was numbingly cold, she couldn't feel it, even if she; when she looked down at herself, stood barefoot in a white summer's dress. But she did not mind. She was finally there, at last, and that was all that mattered.

She stood there waiting patiently in the snow, and turned to look at Eric. But he was no where to be seen, and the chill of the frozen night slowly began gnawing. She felt it creeping up her feet, biting her fingers and cheeks. But still Ellen did not move. She still stood there waiting, even though she was cold, hungry and abandoned.

She felt as if she was standing alone in front of Heaven's Gates. But where was all the wonderful music? Where were all the angels, and where was Eric? Had they let him in and forgotten about her, or was she simply shut out in the cold where people cried and gnashed their teeth?

It felt like an eternity, but Ellen did not move. She stood, waiting for the beautiful gates to open.

But the gates remained closed, and the pin prick stars in the sky began falling from their nest in the heavens, calling to the cold little girl in the snow, singing their sad farewell as they descended into darkness.

Tears, painful and hot streamed down her face, and Ellen sat up in bed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Eric sat at the foot of the bed, looking crestfallen.

"I guess it's all over soon." He said, smiling tiredly and offering her some paper to blow her nose.

"Two kids found tickets today."

Ellen accepted the paper and wiped her tears, thinking of the dream, feeling sorry for the stars that fell singing from the sky, feeling sorry for herself and her friend, who did not seem to have any matter of luck at all.

"Oh?" She said, sniffed and wiped her eyes once more, not knowing what to respond.

"Yeah." Eric said bluntly. "They are all over the morning news, if you want to see."

The two new winners seemed to have entered a competition between them to find out who was the most obnoxious one. Eric and Ellen sat in their sofa, sipping their weak but warm Earl Grey, watching the media circus performing it's deadly stunts, numbing the minds of it's viewers.

The first child to be interviewed was a girl in a pink fashionable jogger's dress and a tee-shirt adorned with stars. She proudly stood in between two large polished steel and glass shelves crammed with trophy's. The equally dressed, hideously made-up and hair-sprayed mother was standing beside her, trying to look even more proud than her little daughter. Once again, a new reporter with a new suit and a new haircut leaned into the picture to present the lucky contestant. "It happened here, in Atlanta, Georgia, In the United States of America, in the Beauregarde residence!" the TV blared and showed the blonde little girl up close, her little snooty mouth busy with constant chewing.

"Mrs. Beauregarde!" The reporter professionally asked the pink clad mother standing beside her masticating daughter. She stared at him with bulging blue eyes heavy with tawdrily turquoise eye-shadow and gave him a wide toothy smile that made her resemble some ancient man-eating carnivore. There was a hungry glint in her eyes.

"You must have become proud when you heard your daughter won the third ticket…" The reporter continued. Mrs Beauregarde blinked and nodded towards the two shelves and gave the cameras another wide, toothy smile from her position beside her daughter. "Off course I am proud! Violet's such a competitor." She said, smiling even wider and glanced at the shelves. "These are just some of the 263 trophies and medals my Violet has won."

The camera zoomed in on the various prizes. They shone and glittered, polished almost to breaking-point. Ellen could see several first prizes from Karate contests, something looking like a set of large false teeth biting into a pink ball of bubble gum accidentally jammed into a trophy receptacle, and a show horse jump first place trophy. Then the camera closed in on the little girl, showing her in full frontal view. Ellen noticed that all though the little girl was smiling, her eyes were cold and indifferent. The reporter opened his mouth to ask his questions, but the little girl snapped him off before he spoke, her cold blue eyes sparkling with self satisfaction.

"Off course I won!_ (chew chew) _I'm always set on winning!_(Chew chew)"_She tossed her blonde hair back and gave the cameras a confident smile.

"I'm a gum chewer, mostly, but when I heard about these ticket things of Wonka's, I laid off the gum, and switched to candy bars. But now. of course, I'm right back on gum again _(Chew Chew CHEW) _Because I've decided to break the World Record of Gum Chewing… again… I chew it all day, except at mealtimes when I stick it behind my ear." This time, Mrs. Beauregarde reacted a little, patting her daughter on the shoulder. "Now, Violet..." she began, but Violet turned her head toward her, in a quick, rodent like manner. "Cool it, Mother!" She snapped, chewing in turbo-gear.

As the little girl continued her staccato paced chomping, her mother leaned into the picture and smiled, her large teeth gleaming unnaturally white. "She's just a driven young woman." Mrs. Beauregarde said. "I don't know where she gets it."

Ellen shuddered as the picture showed the fletcherising girl. She talked in a fast pace, chewing all the time, almost forgetting to breathe. "I'm the Junior World champion gum chewer. Now, this little piece of gum I'm chewing right at this moment, I've been working on for three months solid. (Chew chew chew) That's a record! It's beaten the record held by my best friend, Miss Cornelia Prince Medal. And, boy, was she mad!" The little girl started waving at the photographers and cameramen. "Hi, Cornelia, how are ya, Sweetie?!" Ellen made an involuntary disgusted face upon hearing the girl had been chewing on a gum for three months. It would be a tasteless and hard lump of wet rubber, full of germs just waiting to spread. As the girl spoke and snapped with the gum, Ellen silently thought that the hardest record ever for that girl to break would be to shut up and stop chewing for five entire minutes.

"Off course…" Mrs. Beauregarde added proudly; pointing at a plaque with two crossed silver staffs as if she was a saleswoman in a cheap late night cable shopping channel showing something off, trying to make it look worth buying."…I did have my share of trophies, mostly baton." She smiled voraciously at the cameras, and Ellen sighed. The picture changed once more to show the little girl. She held the ticket in her hand and looked into the camera with ardent determination, her little jaws constantly busy with the gum. " So it says that one kid is gonna get the special prize, better than all the rest… I don't care who those other four are, that kid, it's gonna be me!" Ellen felt how she gritted her teeth at the picture on her TV-set.

Mrs. Beauregarde looked down at her little champion daughter. "Tell them why, Violet!" The little girl pursed her lips and stuck her little nose in the air in a confident manner. "Because _I'm_ a winner!

The reporter flashed them yet another of his professional smiles and turned to the camera. "It is a joyous day for the Beauregarde family as they enjoy their Golden Victory and hope to win the grand prize, but let us now visit the home of the fourth deliriously happy winner of this amazing contest!"

Eric frowned, and the picture showed a modest house in a barren garden, surrounded by dust and sand. Trucks from different Television companies stood parked outside and dozens of reporters flocked at the entrance, trying their best to become the first one to interview the winner. The vista of the suburban home was disturbed by the loud sound of rapid gunfire and through the windows, bright flashed of light accompanied the horrid sound of destruction. For some seconds Ellen wondered if the home of the fourth winner had been turned into a carnage by someone desperate and mental enough to shoot the inhabitants in the house to gain ownership of the ticket.

But the fourth happy winner of the contest was not happy, or delirious.

He was sitting on the floor in front of a huge Wide-screen, THX and Dolby Surround-sound TV set, completely absorbed in a video-game all out massacre, yelling orders to the pixelated combatants splattering their virtual blood on the ground, his face distorted by Playstation-induced aggression and the artificial light flaring across his young features, and upon the pale faces of two tired parents, who seemed to have given up their quest to form a good-natured, calm and caring son.

"Die, die DIE!" He shouted furiously at the screen and jerked aside to evade a virtual karate-kick from his opponent.

Not knowing how to address the boy the news-anchors stood still in the doorway, waiting for a cue, but none came. Only the sound of gunshots, thuds and screams was heard.

Then one of the journalists spoke to his camera, and the picture fluttered over to show him talking into his microphone, trying to speak louder than the booming ruckus of the video-game Ellen instantly recognised him as Evan Baxter from WKBW, the reporter who got a live feed from the Chocolate Factory.

"The fourth Golden Ticket was found yesterday by Mike Ronald Teavee, from Denver, Colorado." Ellen gave her friend a look, raised an eyebrow and laughed dryly.

"That boy doesn't seem to care about anything at all but violence, what an ingrate!" Ellen frowned. "Here he is, owning one of the most precious things in our times, and he doesn't care?!" Her blood began boiling, as it always did when she saw something irritating. The reporter turned to the pale couple standing at the edge of the flickering light, curtains drawn behind them to ward off the daylight.

Then, Mike finally spoke, looking up from the carnage. His voice was indifferent, numbed and bored, as if he was above everyone, loathing everything.

"All you had to do was use a program called "Project Mayhem" to track the manufacturing dates, offset by weather and the derivative of the Nikkei index." He said with his bored dull voice. "A _retard_ could figure it out."

Ellen heard her friend laugh and say something about the corporate giants finally getting what they deserved, but Ellen felt a deep loathing for the boy. She didn't like him one bit, off that, she was most assured, and she did not agree with Eric. She disliked the indifferent way the little boy treated his entire world, and strongly disagreed with the way he treated Mr. Wonka's enterprise. The contest was designed for kids who liked chocolate and sweets and not for aggressive computer-hacking little ingrates. She didn't think Mr. Wonka deserved this treatment.

The picture changed to the boy's parents who stood some feet behind him, wearing dull clothes and dull faces, like they were brainwashed by too much TV. The boy's mother stood still, staring into the void, but his father seemed to think of something to say. And when he did, his voice was just as dead as that of his son. "Most of the time, I don't know what he's talking about." He said apologetically, looking down at his son, sitting on the linoleum floor, absorbed by his virtual blood-bath. "You know kids these days, with all the technology…" His grey bespectacled gaze rested upon his son who now sat shouting to the combatants to die anew. He gave a listless sigh, scratched his mousy comb-over hair and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "Doesn't seem like they stay kids very long…"

Then, Mrs. Teavee seemed to wake up, and looked down at her son finishing his game. "I serve all his TV dinners right here, or at his computer." She said flatly "He's never even been to the table."

Mike, who was now shooting a tan, dark-bearded figure clad in white flowing robes and a black and white Palestine-scarf momentarily looked up from the screen and pointed at the gun on the paused picture. "Wait 'til I get a real one. Colt 45. Pop won't let me have one yet, will ya, pop?" Mr. Teavee sighed and shook his head. "Not 'til you're twelve, son."

When the game was over, and the boy had finished cursing, he slammed the joystick down and looked into the camera.

"In the end, I only had to buy one candy bar."

Evan Baxter bent down and offered his microphone to Mike who ignored it. "Mike. My questions to you are: How did the bar taste? Why did you only buy one bar, and why not celebrate your victory with more chocolate?"

The boy turned his gaze from the craved weapon on the TV screen and gave him a "do-you-take-me-for-an-idiot-look," sighed irritatedly and stated; as if it was obvious to everyone; "Duh… I don't know, I _hate_ chocolate…!"

As she thought about how horrible the boy was, she remembered the other three children, and began feeling most sorry for the chocolatier. He was about to let four monsters into his factory, one more beastly than the other.

Mr. Baxter turned away from the boy and his parents and began walking back outside into the daylight.

"Four Tickets found…" He said while he carefully planted his expensive Gucci loafers to avoid the many multicoloured cables and cords strewn in the plain hallway by the other Television companies. "…and only one to go!" The winter sunlight beamed down upon him as he finally reached the Teavee front door, and seemed to enjoy a deep breath of fresh winter air. "Many question-marks are left unstraightened, as the mad search continues throughout the world! the reporter touched his ear-piece and looked into the camera once more. "Now over to Susan Ortega with the latest ordinary news, over to you Susan!" But neither Ellen nor Eric were too interested in what Susan Ortega had to say, and so they turned off their small TV, rose from the sofa and made their way into the kitchen. Ellen, to prepare a breakfast of oat-meal for herself and for her friend, and Eric to sit down and gather his strength.

Ellen peered into the emptiness of their cupboard and silently wondered what she would have done if it led to Narnia. _"Probably nothing"_, she then thought, remembering the evil Ice-queen Jadis, who offered the four lost children hot chocolate and security, a gift that was a trap to have them frozen into stone in her ghastly court yard. Ellen sighed deeply while she collected the cheap paper-bag containing the dry flakes of oat-meal. "_There is no more food there than we have here…"_ Her thoughts strayed to the barren white hills of the childhood fairy-tale, thinking she would much rather risk to be turned into stone and be placed in a castle yard than live the rest of her life behind the bars of poverty in a world that was loosing it's imagination, compassion and innocence. Oh, what she wouldn't have given to disappear into another realm, like Neverland, Fantasia or Narnia, but she was not a child any more, she was a young woman in the beginning of her twenties, and she was poor, hungry and cold. _"That was it."_ she thought darkly. A fantasy, and not reality. Reality was there; in the empty pit of her famished stomach, yearning desperately for food.

As she stood thinking about Narnia, a funny notion came to her mind, bobbing up and down like a cork in water. What if Mr. Wonka turned the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve into stone and displayed them as statues in his front yard? Ellen giggled. That would serve them just right, the little brats. And just as she imagined the petrified child statues standing there in the snow, in hilarious poses, she recalled another scene from a very "Wonky" movie, a movie with Tim Curry starring as a crazy alien transvestite taking people prisoners, turning them into statues in his weird laboratory.

Ellen had to laugh, the trail of thought being absurd in the midst of all her ordeals, and she was grateful that; even if she had lost almost everything to poverty; she had; at least; not lost her sense of humour.

She rummaged around, and noticed one of the bags standing differently from when she looked the last time. As always, her sense of correction dove in, and she just had to correct the errant position, and as she moved it to it's original place, she discovered something familiarly purple glinting underneath the near empty bag.

Ellen's heart leaped into her throat. She then heard Eric's silent chuckle behind her back and turned toward him, bar in hand.

"Why, Eric?" She demanded to know. But Eric just smiled, his green eyes filled with warmth.

"Because you're my best friend." He simply stated, smirking mischievously "Open it."

Ellen hesitated. "But…" Eric rose from his chair and strode toward her, she noticed it was hard for him to walk, his birth-inherited blood disease causing him to reel from vertigo. Her heart was filled with reverence toward him. He was ill, yet he had made his way to the store to buy her this gift, and her eyes brimmed, tears welling up inside, clogging her throat, making it difficult for her to speak. "No _buts_!" Eric ordered, clinging on to the doorpost. "Now open it!"

Ellen held the bar carefully as though it might have been an injured bird, and looked down upon it.

"Do it quickly!" Eric said, his eyes glittering with a spark of something Ellen thought was long lost.

Ellen hesitated for a brief moment, then the wrapping containing the delicious bar was quickly ripped off, both friends looking excitedly at the contents of the purple Wonka Creamy Double Delight bar.

"Nothing!" The thin, dry and garishly clothed older woman snapped at Ellen, who stood staring at the floor in silence.

"I said It last month, I said it last week, _and_ I said it yesterday. There are _no_ jobs available!" The woman snapped, her brightly red manicured nails tapping the employment office standard clipboard in irritation, her expensive red designer shoes filling in the rhythm of rejection.

Disappointed; with burning tears brimming her grayish blue eyes; Ellen stood, and turned to leave. She was rejected once more. She was used to it, she had to take it, she had to endure it, but she was on the verge. She was slowly giving up. As she turned to leave, she felt as if the chill of the winter outside had suddenly entered the room, just as it had done in her sad dream, only this time it was not sad, it was a raw feeling as the void of despair slowly began gnawing and tugging at her. She could feel how the walls of the tiny cubicle seemed to close in on her, crumbling away into nothingness, and the world began turning darker in her mind's eye, until she stood alone at the precipice of complete infinity, gazing down into the unforgiving, unyielding darkness, unable to move away.

"Are... ou… llright?"

She could hear a faint voice trailing in and out of existence, but disregarded it as the nothingness of the abyss that pulled her closer to the edge was stronger and held her in a waking trance.

"… are… ou… llright?" Someone was there with her, and Ellen turned around to face the intruder, ready to tell him or her that she wanted to be left alone, to finally die in peace.

The face of a woman Ellen thought she knew loomed in front of her, looking at her with measured and simulated concern. Ellen was aware of ghastly pink coloured lipstick tainting the woman's thinly pursed lips. She looked into her gaunt grey features and saw her hollow cheeks and the hue of her horrible blue eye-shadow smeared onto her drooping eyelids, framed by hideous red cat's eye spectacles. It was a grisly sight and Ellen was jerked back to reality.

"Pardon?" Ellen squinted and shook her head in confusion, her stomach wailed for food, her head was pounding with pain and swimming with nauseating vertigo. It seemed all her thoughts were muted and dulled, as if someone had pulled a cold and wet blanket over her brain, weighing it down.

The woman at the employment office removed her skinny hand from Ellen's thin, shivering shoulder. "I said _are you all right_?" Ellen contemplated her question. _"Yes; off course I'm all right, you ugly scarecrow from Hell!"_ Ellen thought_ "I feel wonderful! I'm as slim as a straw and keep that way by rummaging the garbage for cans I can sell, and I eat gourmet dust for dinner, which I then do not need to throw away, since I live in a frigging refrigerator! I'm so happy to be unemployed and rejected, since it builds character! Maybe one day I can become like you, a dried up old hag who licks upwards and kicks downwards! __Off course I look forward to the next time you will reject me, and until then, Ill just plan my funeral I thank you…" _

This, and more Ellen had wanted to snap back darkly, but her head was tired, her mouth dry and her throat clenched around the swelling tears that were threatening to burst. All Ellen could muster was to shrug her hand off from her shoulder. She did not want her false concern.

"No, I'm not okay." Was her simple reply, and before the middle aged scarecrow had time to say anything else, Ellen sighed, and took her leave without another word.


End file.
